i like butter, don't you?

November! It’s the month that allows the sun to burn the clouds away from the sky. Flowers, seeing the sunshine, blossom. Birds sing. As my dear Anouk would say, horny weather is here.

Did I blink? I can see the windblown hair of September and the ghoulish ass of last month riding a tandem bike in the distance. When did they pass me? What have I been doing?

I’m still slowly gaining weight. I eat more than I breathe. Meals are like tug boats tugging shipments of fat to my body. The process is slow and sometimes when the fat is offloaded it slips past the guards and takes the big plunge into the porcelain bowl. I currently weigh between 62 and 63 kilos, which is around 137 pounds.

When I go to the gym, I imagine myself as a loaf of bread. My trainer is the baker and the dumb and bar bells are the yeast. The trainer, like any baker, is a sadist. Yes, bakers are sadists. The pain from lifting weights is unlike anything I’ve experienced. This has been a new month of experiences for me, even this late in my life.

The hunger after the gym is also unlike anything I’ve experienced. As weeks pass, my body rises and puffs, not with air but with rice. I am a white rice ball.

Now it’s true that what goes up, must come down, but surely you must also realize that what goes in, must come out? If Newton knew that he would have patented toilet seat warmers. But as my friend, the glutard, says, “You are what you don’t excrete. In your case, beer and salt water taffy.”

I’m also learning how to swim, again. I’ve been learning to swim for a few years. I’ve yet to drown, so up to this point I think it’s fair to say I’m a moderately successful swimmer. Last year I failed because the pool was too far, and I was far too lazy. But this year, the pool is across the street.

When I look out my window and I see togs and goggles, my bucket is filled with guilt. I should know how to swim. But even in a controlled environment, I panic. Swimming would be easier if I could breathe underwater. In a past life I was not a fish. I was probably a kitten than some farmer placed in a bag. Plop.

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I want to blog more often, but content is as elusive as a remote control. Even when you find the clicker, deciding what to watch is a chore. Next month, I’ll let someone else choose the channel for me.

There’s a meme in New Zealand called 30 days of me. Each day you post a blog. This is something I’ve never done before, so naturally I’m scared.

When I look ahead and see December in the distance, on a bike, I’ll wave him down and make him stop. Next month will be riddled with posts that are useless, possibly humorous, most likely ridiculous, but inevitably me.